


Strings

by Illyria_Lives



Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 22:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illyria_Lives/pseuds/Illyria_Lives
Summary: How Rowdy Yates fell in with Gil Favor's outfit, and how he got his hat.





	Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to all the nice Rawhide fans on Tumblr who put up with my incoherent liveblogging~
> 
> In my other fic, "since I saw you last," I made a point that seeing Gil Favor without stampede strings on his hat means he's no longer a cowboy. But then, right after posting the fic, I went back to the show and noticed that Rowdy is LITERALLY the only drover sporting stampede strings. And thus, more fic.

Every time he does the hiring for a drive, Gil Favor does the math.  Not just for the man’s pay and the cost of supplies for feeding another mouth, but for how  _ long _ exactly he’ll need to be paying the man’s wages, and paying for him to eat.  Some greenhorns he know won’t make it even as far as the next town before taking their dollars and their pride and turning back.  Some, he can see them making it along a few weeks until their first incident, be it weather or disease or just plain danger before scattering to the wind with their pay.  Those men are worth the money, for now, but it means farther along he’ll need to hire more men, and men picked up in the middle of a drive are risky investments. 

Then there are the men who, regardless of their grit or their sand, Favor just can’t well see living through the drive.  The man who comes up to him with a cough and a bandana stained with blood, he’ll never be able to handle the dust, but he sure as hell will die trying.  While he has respect for a man wanting to go out with his boots on, he can’t risk the extra time it might take to dig a grave, so those men he sends away.  Other trail bosses don’t much care, but Gil Favor dislikes digging graves.

He tries to steer away those who are green as can be, unless he’s desperate for bodies.  The risk and the cost of keeping up men who can’t deliver rankles with him, but so often he can’t afford to be choosey.

This is one of those times.  The ride has been smoothly sailing along for a while, but he lost three men in the last town after they drank themselves into an early grave, courtesy of some even drunker townies with guns.  They’ve been low on supplies, too, as Wishbone had to roll out of that town with less than he entered. 

Once word gets around that a cattle drive is in town and looking for drovers, Favor sets up in the saloon with some food and his book.  The confident, experienced men always come by first, he knows, but that doesn’t always mean they’ll follow through. Then come the more bashful: the old barflies who need a dollar or two, the unsure (they will definitely not make to the next town over), but as he’s preparing to close up, a trio of young men approach.  The one at their lead is blond, dressed in sturdy clothes. Farmer’s son, if Favor had to hedge a bet.

“Dave Eckman,” he introduces himself.  His handshake is nothing to write home about.  “We hear you’re looking to hire drovers, mister.”

“That’s right,” Favor says.  He eyes Eckman’s two backup dancers: a nervous-looking young man with dark hair, wearing a collar and tie, and a younger kid, still wearing his hat, as skinny as he was tall.  The dark-haired one was shifting his feet, looking at Favor; the tall one is looking at his plate of food. “The three of you together?”

“This is Chris Jenkins,” Eckman indicates his dark-haired friend, who sort of bobs his head.  He’s dead on his feet, even deader once on a horse, Favor surmises. “And this here’s Yates.”

“Rowdy Yates,” the kid speaks up for himself.

“That the name your ma gave you?” Favor finds himself asking.

“Yessir,” the kid says.  As if suddenly realizing, he extends his hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

Well,  _ there’s  _ a handshake.  Big hands for such a rangy kid, work-rough.  “Gil Favor, trail boss.” Yates nods as he withdraws his hand.  “Any of you three have any experience moving cattle?”

“Moved the cattle on my parent’s farm well enough,” Eckman says, and laughs.  “I’m the best trick rider in the county, mister, that’s for sure.”

“It is,” Jenkins speaks up.  He moves his hat round and round in his big hands.  “He’s won the Mayday barrel race four years in a row, now.”

“And what does that make you?” Favor eyes him till he can see he’s sweating.  “Second best?”

Eckman claps a hand on his stuttering friend’s shoulder.  “Yessir, Chris’s daddy was in the cavalry during the war. Runs in his family, it does.”

Favor slides his eyes to Yates, who is absolutely looking ready to make a go at the food on his plate.  “Third best ain’t exactly a selling point.”

“What?  Oh, no, I’m not from around here.”  He gives an awkward laugh. The kid’s teeth are good, anyhow.  Favor has to remind himself in the moment that they’re boys, not cattle or horses.  “No, I’m just passing through. Used to work over at the Bar Lazy J.”

The name rings a bell; Favor would bet anything the ranch is close by on his trail map.  “Why’d you leave?”

“Didn’t feel like my place.”  He scratches at one cheek. “Figure I like moving better than staying in one place.”

“We just met over at the bar,” Eckman speaks up, forcing his way back into the spotlight.  “Watched him chase down a stampeding horse, thought we could make friends, then we heard you were hiring.  Seemed almost too perfect.”

Favor gives a tight-lipped smile.  “Almost.” He looks down at his ledger, does some mental math, and sighs.  “Alright. Now  _ listen _ —” he cuts off how the three young men all start to excitedly move around, “—you’ll need bedrolls, saddles of your own.  You got any horses between you?”

“We’ve all got horses of our own, yeah,” Eckman says.

“Ride ‘em on up to the camp, but as long as we’re on the trail, none of you are riding your own horse.  You’ll get any other mount outta the remuda you want.”

“Well, why can’t we—”

“It’s tough going, men don’t seem as likely to push a beast they know well.”  Some of the light was going from their eyes. “You get three square meals a day, but those meals are beans and biscuits, sometimes bacon, sometimes beef.  You’ll be expected to ride drag, that’s in the dust behind the herd, or nighthawk. You get a dollar a day and even less sleep than you’re imagining right now.”  Eckman and Jenkins share a glance, but the taller kid is nodding along, face drawn. “You get a bonus when we get to market, but only if you make it to market along with the beef.  You follow?”

The nods are slow in coming.  Favor says, “Good” with finality, and has them all sign their names.  They’re not going to last long, anyway; he puts the book and his thoughts of them away.  “We ride out at the crack of dawn. You’re not going to be waiting for you.” With that final bit of advice, he pushes himself standing, moving to one side, where Scarlet and Quince are at the bar.  Eckman and Jenkins leave together; so much for newly-forged friends.

It’s more of an instinct than an actual intent that makes Favor look back at where he had been sitting; the tall kid is nowhere to be seen, and Favor’s plate of food is wiped clean.

* * *

Chris Jenkins doesn’t even make it to camp.  Oh, but Dave Eckman is full of bravado and excuses for his friends, going on and on to anyone who would listen about how Mrs. Jenkins just can’t spare her son, and well, he’s not like Eckman anyways, not the kind of kid to like the open range, better off without him.

Eckman and his tall friend arrive together in the morning.  It’s promising to be a burning hot day, not a cloud in the sky and little to no shade promised on the trail ahead.  Eckman gets to running his mouth, turns down the offer of a breakfast— he ate already. His tall friend has no such reservations and doesn’t even whimper about a breakfast of beans and a hard biscuit.  

Once everyone’s had a chance to eat, Favor starts going down the line, assigning spots.  Flank, swing, and so on, he knows where his men are good at, and takes a hedging bet on the newest hands— one man mentions he’s got experience roping, so he goes on swing.  Eckman hears this and insists he’s decent, there, too.

“You go where I assign you,” Favor says, with enough of a growl to make the kid sweat a little.  Then he jerks his chin. “You better live up to your promise. You go swing.”

“Yessir, Mr. Favor,” Eckman says, and nods.

It’s only once he’s handed out the bulk of the positions that he realizes he’s going to end up coming up with the tall, rangy kid and a few of the new hands on drag.  The words are almost out of his mouth, standing in front of the kid, before he realizes what he’s assigning and stops himself.

“Well, I can do drag,” the tall kid— Favor can’t remember his name and doesn’t have the time to go digging through his bags for his ledger— says, and scruffs one big hand through his hair.  His other hand is holding onto his hat, beating it against his thigh. That hat has seen better days, and so has most of the kid’s gear.

Pete shares a look with Favor, already in the saddle.  Pete holds up his hand, palm down, and tilts it from side to side.  The kid’s a good rider, but drag is a different beast. Favor doesn’t like to put greenhorns on drag simply because it’s a surefire way to make a jasper quit, if not get seriously hurt.

“It’s tough work,” he warns.

“I like tough work,” the kid replies, and grins, all wide.  “Whatever needs doing, I can do it.”

“Well, alright,” Favor assents.  He won’t be the only man on drag, so if he drops off, it won’t do much but lighten the load.  “Make sure you cover your mouth and nose. It’s not too dry out, but the dust can be a killer.”

“Bandana, got it,” the kid nods.  “Thanks.” The kid starts to bounce away, but it’s Pete who rides up into his path and rests his arms on his saddle horn.  The kid looks confused for a second, and then Pete jerks his chin. The kid spins around. “Mr. Favor,” he stammers out, “I meant to say thank you,  _ Mr _ . Favor.”

That’ll do it.  Favor lets him and all the other men go.  He watches them get saddled up, and frowns.  Eckman’s saddling his own horse. It’s in that moment Favor starts to do the math.  Perhaps there’s a chance he’s wrong, or miscalculating, but it’s been a while at that since he’s misread a man.  No, Eckman isn’t anything more than some jumped-up ranch kid who thinks he can ride. He’s not a drover, no, and probably never will be one without a serious attitude adjustment.

The tall kid, well… Favor can’t quite make him out.  At the very least, come noon, he’ll have a better idea of what the kid’s made of.  

If he even holds out that long.

* * *

They end up having to go on past noon before they get to a good camping ground, and Favor makes the call to circle up for lunch.  Pete returns to them as they’re all starting to dismount, and the far riders are being called in.

“Found a good spot with a river, four or five miles up.  Should make it by nightfall.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Favor claps him on the shoulder and sends him off.  He watches as the men settle down their horses, take their saddles, and set up around camp.  The usual groupings start to form, old friends all holding court with one another, but the new men seem to be integrating well.  At least one is laughing with Joe Scarlet, so there’s at least one win. Another man is showing Wishbone how lightly reddened his forearms are, from how he pushed his sleeves up in the heat.  Wishbone isn’t too sympathetic, informing the man that in that case, he should roll his sleeves back down, shouldn’t he? That makes Favor smile to himself.

He doesn’t spot any of the young greenhorns, though.

He hails Quince, who is only just riding up.  “You seen Eckman?” 

“Seen him run,” Quince replies.  He leans out of the saddle and spits.  “Three or four miles back he tells me— well, nevermind what he tells me, but he lit out.”

“Didn’t mention wanting his wages?”

“Oh, he mentioned his wages.  Where I could stick ‘em, if I wanted.”

Favor sighs and massages his forehead.  “Right. And the other one— the tall kid.  Eckman take him along?”

“I ain’t seen him.”

“Alright… go on and get some grub.”

“Yessir.”  Quince boots his horse onwards towards the remuda.  Favor sighs again; he’ll need to rework the stations for all of the men in the upcoming days, short the three boys from town.  Not bad, since he still has some more experienced hands from that same town, but he’s feeling the pinch, especially if they run into any rough terrain.  It’s fixing up to be a hell of a week.

Favor handles his own horse and wanders over towards the food line, thinking to himself.  He wonders at it, but he feels a little surprised that the go-lucky skinny kid didn’t make the cut.  Or— wait. Coming over the range, towards them. Someone says “Rider!” but all Favor has to do is squint and recognize the shape.

Well.  Good thing Favor hadn’t wagered any money on it, because lo and behold the tall kid comes into camp at full tilt.

The kid runs his horse in and is off of it in less than a moment.  He makes a beeline for the chow before Favor can get over the pure surprise that the kid is still around, and he starts into action following the kid even as Mushy exclaims, Wishbone hollers, and Scarlet and Quince both start jabbering— and not just because the kid tried to cut them in line.

“Well, what’s a matter?  All I want is some food,” the kid is saying, and Favor turns him fully around by the shoulder— and takes a shocked step back.

While the kid from the shoulders down looks just as he did in town, dusty, lanky, worn, his face is utterly ravaged.  A deep, burning red that seems almost scaly, a light dusting of shallow blisters across his forehead, the skin on his nose looks like it was scoured down a layer.  And, in the middle of it all— slightly swollen, it looks like, to boot— his eyes, wide and clear, looking at Favor in confusion. There’s a visible shade difference between the tip of his nose, downwards on his face, and upwards.  Still red, just a different, lighter shade.

“What…?” Favor can’t even finish the thought.  

“Alright, you come here!” Wishbone takes over the kid from Favor, dragging him around and sitting him down on a crate by the side of the chuckwagon.  “Mushy, go get my burn grease from my doctoring bag. The rest of you jaspers,  _ eat _ !”

“Well, hey, what about me?” the kid asks.  His ears are so red, to boot, Favor can barely look at them.

Wishbone shares a look with Favor—  _ where in sam hell did you find this kid?  _ which Favor replies to with a shrug and a headshake.  “You’ll eat after I stop the skin from falling off your face.”

“What… is it… is it  _ bad _ ?”

Favor rolls his eyes heavenward and says a brief prayer.

Mushy approaches with a jar a disconcerting greenish color, not quite opaque, like liquid candle wax but with the consistency of lard.  Wishbone unscrews the lid, dips a twist of cotton in, and starts dabbing. A little more gentle than Favor is used to expecting from Wish, and only then does the kid start to show signs of discomfort.  He also keeps his eyes on Mushy, back to doling out food. The other drovers look to the kid, shrug it off, and get about their business.

With his hands on his hips, Favor waits until the kid notices him looking at him.  “What happened?” he asks, going for gruff, but the situation is so strange he can barely get there from perplexed.

“I— well I reckon the sun probably got me good, huh?  Stings a little.”

“It’ll be stinging worse once it sets in,” Wishbone sighs.

Pete brings his empty plate to Mushy and joins their meeting, chucking one of his feet up on a spoke of the wheel.  “Where’s your hat, boy?” he asks, pushing his own stetson farther up his forehead.

The kid winces as Wishbone none too gently smears the noxious-smelling paste on his face, getting around his nose.  “Horse almost threw me, right after breakfast. Hey, is there still food—?”

“You sit still,” Wishbone admonishes, and grabs the front of the kid’s vest to keep him from rising further.  “‘Less you want to lose half your face.”

The kid slumps back down, hands hanging between his legs.  Those long legs are stretched out all cockeyed, but Favor can’t make out any tremors, like another newer drover has, sitting some ways away and watching.  “Well, like I said, horse almost threw me, but I kept on. Hat got knocked off, but I guess a couple of the cattle got spooked by my horse being spooked and took off.  So I went out after ‘em.” For a second the kid goes up to scratch at his face, but Wishbone smartly smacks his hand away. The burned parts of his face are now shiny with grease and an off-green color, above the redness and the blisters.

“And what, you just left your hat there?” Pete asks.  The look on his face is halfway between fond and stupefied.  

“Well, the herd was moving!  And cattle keep dropping off!  What was I supposed to do?”

“Go back for your hat,” Pete says, and makes a gesture with his hand as he stands up, huffing, and the look on his face is officially, squarely in fond territory.  Passing Favor, he makes no qualm about stopping and declaring, “Congrats, you found the best foolish little greenhorn in all the territories.”

“Yeah,” Favor grunts, schooling his expression, because the kid is standing now and officially fight-ready with his face covered in Wishbone’s unction.  

“What does he mean by that?” he asks, and starts out after Pete like he’s going to start something.  Favor has to catch him by the arm and steer him around, towards a quiet corner of camp. For such a stick, the kid’s arm is wiry beneath Favor’s hand.  Not as fragile as he appears.

“How bad’s it feel?” he asks, and gestures towards his own face.

“What?  Oh.” The kid reaches up, touches his cheek, and hisses.  “Not so bad,” he says through clenched teeth. “Yeah, feels fine.  Can’t even feel it.”

Favor blows air out slowly through his lips.  “Alright. How do you feel about making it till we make night camp?”

“Like I said, can’t even feel it.  Maybe even get an extra layer of this before we head out.”

“Alright,” Favor says again.  “You can stay over till breakfast.  I can pay you off then, and you’ll have time enough to get back to town.”  Part of him twinges in sympathetic pain for the kid, and he even wonders if he’ll listen to reason and ride back by night, to spare his face any more abuse.

But, the kid’s bright eyes go wide, staring at him.  “Are you  _ firing _ me, Mr. Favor?”

It takes Favor to understand the kid’s pique.  “You don’t want to keep  _ going _ ?” he demands.

“Well, sure I want to keep going,” he replies, frowning.  “You’re not going to cut me out just cuz I got a little sunburned, are you?”

“A little— are you touched in the head, or what?  You look like you got your face shoved in a fire!”

The boy puffs himself up a little— if Favor isn’t wrong, he’s got a scant half inch or so of height on him.  Favor doesn’t like that, no, not one bit. “I said I’m  _ fine _ !  I’m not gonna be told whether or not I’m fit to ride!”

“Well I’m telling you that I got no use for a man can’t pull his own weight.”

“A sunburn ain’t gonna keep me from pulling my weight!” the kid exclaims.  “What do you take me for, some stupid townie like Eckman who’s never worked a day in his life?”

For a long moment, Favor can’t form any words.  He shifts his weight, crosses his arms. “What’s your name, son?”

The change in tone seems to calm the kid down a bit.  “Rowdy Yates.”

“Well, that certainly  _ sounds  _ accurate.”

“Hey—”

“You’re telling me you’re fine with riding out tomorrow, looking like that?”

“Well, if the cows don’t mind, I don’t mind.”

Favor has to chuckle at that.  He turns and looks out for Wishbone.  “You got a spare hat somewhere in the wagons?”

Wishbone shakes his head.  “Already checked.”

“Well, he can borrow my hat, if he needs to.”  Mushy, next to Wishbone, seems to remember that he’s currently  _ wearing  _ said hat, and pulls it off with both hands, and offers it.  “Sitting in the chuck wagon I don’t need it much.”

Wishbone tilts his head.  “Well, now that’ll keep the sun outta his eyes, and save the worst part of his face, but his ears…”

“I can wrap up in a spare bandana, no problem,” Rowdy says.  He’s got his eyes rapt on Favor. “I ain’t bothered by it.”

“You say that  _ now _ , boy, but just you wait…” Wishbone begins, but stops when Favor shakes his head.

“Your choice,” Favor says.  He points one finger. “But I won’t have you slowing up the herd.  You ride swing with Joe Scarlet until nightfall. Try and stick to some shade wherever you can find it.  You start to feel faint or anything, you ride on to Wishbone. You hear me?”

Rowdy ducks his red, red face.  “Yes sir, Mr. Favor.”

And that’s that.  Favor releases the kid, who makes for the food like he hasn’t eaten in days.  Watching him go, completely fluid despite the ravaging his face had taken, makes Favor shake his head in disbelief.  Perhaps he’s not so good at math as he thought.

* * *

The rest of the day is hot and dry.  Several hours in, Favor rides up on a slight hill and pauses to drink some water and let his horse graze.  Looking down at the organized mayhem of the drive, he can spot individual men going about their work, whooping and hollering as they go.  It’s easy to spot Rowdy Yates at work, what with him being the only man not wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

He’s doing well.  Favor watches as a stray steer breaks off, a few stragglers with it, and Rowdy kicks his horse up to speed.  He doesn’t even need to rope— just with his horse, turning and twisting, he’s able to push the steer back into the body of the herd, and the stragglers follow along as docile as could be.  

Favor looks for and locates Joe Scarlet, and calls out his name as loudly as he can.  The man rides on up the incline before coming to a stop. “Yes, Mr. Favor?”

“Thoughts on the new kid?”

Joe Scarlet shrugs.  “Not many. Good rider.  He knows his horse, knows the cattle… where the hell did you find him, boss?”

“More like he found me.”

“Well, aside from looking uglier than all hell, right now, I’ve got no problems with him.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“No problem, boss.”  Joe kicks his horse back into gear to rejoin the herd.  Favor stays awhile on the hill, watching, thinking. At one point he watches as the scrap of grey goes shooting off of Rowdy’s head, and the kid just as quickly hooks his leg around his saddle horn and dips to retrieve it.  By the way he swivels his head around, re-fixing Mushy’s cap in place, he’s anxious to see if he got caught. 

Favor smiles.  

* * *

Come nightfall, Favor meets with Pete about the stretch ahead of them, a trading outpost might need checking in with, and sets up one of the new hands on nighthawk.  Then, once that’s all said and done, Favor scans the camp, and ends up finding Rowdy sitting against a tree, Mushy sitting next to him. The two boys aren’t that far off in age, and seem to be doing just the kind of idiotic thing can be expected of the two of them— poking at Rowdy’s face.  Favor heads on over.

“You’re giving off heat just like a kettle, Mr. Yates,” Mushy is saying as Favor arrives at their little meeting.  He’s got one hand hovering an inch or so off of Rowdy’s cheek, and Almighty, the kid’s face is definitely swollen, now.  Swollen, shiny, and downright painful to look at. Wishbone must have smeared more grease on him, because it smells, bad.  But, the smell hasn’t scared Mushy off, nor Rowdy’s appetite— the plate on his lap is licked clean.

“Feels like I’m still baking,” Rowdy replies, fingering lightly at a blister on his forehead, and winces.  “And say, you don’t gotta call me Mr. Yates. Rowdy’ll do just fine.”

“Okay, Mr. Rowdy.  Hello, Mr. Favor!”

“Mushy.”  Favor nods.

The young man stands and wipes his hands off of his apron.  “I guess I’ve got some scrubbing to do. I’ll go see to it. You want me to take that plate for you, Mr. Rowdy?”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m gonna keep on it for a while.  Wait, here’s your hat. I’m much obliged.”

“You sure you’re not going to need it again tomorrow?”

“Didn’t seem to help much,” Rowdy admits.

Mushy’s face falls.  “Aw. Well, okay. Thanks for holding onto it for me.”  He slaps his cap back on his head, again nods to Favor, and heads over to the chuckwagon.  Rowdy stands up and wipes his hands off on his pants, keeping hold of his empty plate.

“Mr. Favor.”

“Looks bad, Rowdy.”

“I know, but, honest, it’s just a hurt.  I’ve had much worse and kept on working, before.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, like… well I was in Yuma, during the War.”

Now  _ there’s  _ some surprising information.  Even in the East as he was during the War, Favor knows Yuma by reputation alone, and if he does his math right, Rowdy’d be no more than a boy around the time he would have been in Yuma.  Well, not a  _ boy _ … plenty of foolish young men barely out of short pants ended up in worse places during the War.  But, still.

“Never stopped fighting, though.  No matter what happened. This,” Rowdy waves at his swollen, burned face, “this ain’t anything.”

Favor nods, slowly.  “I see.”

“‘Sides, it’s good now it’s cooler out.  I don’t think I’ll have trouble sleeping or nothing.”

“Good,” Favor says, still slow.  “Good…”

“Something wrong, Mr. Favor?”

“No, just thinking.”  After another silent moment, he claps Rowdy on the shoulder.  “Go over and get yourself some more food. We ride out early tomorrow.”

The implication of further employment is not lost on Rowdy, who perks up, and something in Favor’s chest softens.  “Yessir! Mr. Favor!” He scampers on over, as gleeful as a man with a mask of burns and lard possibly could.

Favor smells Pete’s cigarette smoke before the scout even appears in his periphery.  He’s also watching Rowdy happily getting served up another scoop of beans, Wishbone admonishing both him and Mushy for picking at his face.

“I like the new kid,” Pete declares.

“Yeah,” Favor sighs, “me, too.”

“He’s funny.”

“Not like you, huh, Pete?” Favor replies, grinning, and walks off to go scribble in his trail log.

* * *

The kid, for one,  _ does  _ have trouble sleeping.  Favor can hear him tossing and turning throughout the night, although Rowdy only gets up once to pace around and splash water from the barrels on his no doubt throbbing, stinging face.  Not that Favor stays awake listening.

Come dawn, they start to break out the camp, and Favor lets Quince direct everyone to their roles— same as yesterday, save for a few substitutions on drag.  Favor saddles up, confers with Pete, sends Pete off, gets a few words from Wishbone about supplies, and cuts out of camp, pausing for a moment.

There he is— Rowdy had insisted Mushy keep his hat, and has his head wrapped up in some kind of knotted turban of cloth, covering his ears and forehead, if only just so.  He’s also got a fresh layer of doctoring on his face, and Favor really needs to have a word with Wishbone about making the kid  _ less  _ uglier through medicine, not worse.

“Rowdy!” Favor calls out.  The kid turns his horse around well, and gets it moving even better.  Poor Dave Eckman, Favor thinks, if I’d cut Rowdy loose you wouldn’t be the best rider in the county for long.  “Come on, you’re with me.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Favor.”  They fall into step with one another, and about a minute manages to pass in silence before Rowdy speaks up.  “Where are we going, anyways?”

“Got some mail held for me at an outpost, a little ways off the trail.  Gonna go pick it up, make it back to the herd before dark.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Rowdy sits a little stiffly in his saddle.

Favor shoots him a tight-lipped grin.  “Thought I was dragging you out to fire you?”

“Well…”

His laugh is a bark.  “Just picking up the mail, Rowdy.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

They make good time.  Once in a while Favor picks a tricky bit of ground, but Rowdy keeps easy pace.  There’s some rough edges to him, for sure, but nothing that maturity and experience can’t wring out of him.  

The outpost is barely that, just a well, a stagecoach stop, the post office, a jail, and a general goods store.  They tie their horses up together outside of the general goods store. With orders from Favor not to wander too far off, Rowdy is left standing on the boarded sidewalk, and Favor goes to collect his mail.  There’s not much, but it’s one less thing to worry about in the weeks to come.

Favor emerges from the post office to find Rowdy frightening some poor girls with his face, saying, “Beautiful day, ain’t it ma’am?” as they cling to one another and pass him by at top walking speed.  “Well, what’s a matter? Something wrong…?”

“Yeah— your face is covered in burn grease.”  Favor stops him from trailing along after the young women.  “Come on, let’s go. One last stop.”

The general goods store doesn’t have any other customers.  Favor heads for the counter to give Wishbone’s order of tobacco and sugar, and Rowdy just wanders.  The dialogue with the shopkeep is the typical one for Favor— trail boss, head of cattle, Sedalia, fine, fine, thank you— until Rowdy pipes up.

“Hey, how much for one of these hats, huh?”

Favor turns.  Rowdy’s holding a tan stetson in his hands, the crown already sunk down, the brim nice and wide.  He turns, grinning, and Favor can hear the pained intake of breath the shopkeeper makes in lieu of a gasp.

“For you,” the shopkeeper says, looking taken aback, “fifty cents.”

“Wow, really?” for a moment Rowdy looks ecstatic, then sobers.  “Say, what’s wrong with it, then? This is worth two dollars, at least.”

“Call it an act of good Samaritanism.”

Favor feels like sighing as Rowdy’s mouth tightens into a line.  “I won’t take charity—”

“Fifty cents for the hat, thank you,” Favor cuts him off, and pays the shopkeep.  “Oh, and two of those leather thongs, while you’re at it.” He places the money down on the counter.

“Mr. Favor, you don’t gotta—”

“I’ll tally it up later, don’t you worry none.  Let’s get out of here.”

He waits until the supplies are loaded onto the horses before turning to Rowdy.  “Gimme that hat.” 

Rowdy surrenders it, eyes narrowed, but doesn’t say anything until Favor starts poking holes near the hatband.  “Hey—”

“One second.”  In just a few moments, Favor returns the hat, now with two leather thongs stuck and knotted through the hat band, and knotted down below.  Rowdy takes the hat in his hands, frowning at the alteration.

“What did you…?”

“Stampede strings,” Favor says, and shows how the knot slips tighter, if needed.  “Learned how to fix em up in the army. I figure if you’re gonna stick around, picking up strays, it’s better you have a hat can’t get knocked off your head.”

The kid looks fight-ready, for a moment, then perks up.  “You’re keeping me on, then?”

“As long as you’re willing to stick around.”

Rowdy gives it the appearance of a thought.  “Well, the trail ends in Sedalia, don’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m willing to stick around till then.”  Rowdy’s smile perhaps isn’t as wide as it could be, but the swollen look to his cheeks makes Favor twinge in empathy for how the gesture must sting.  Then he realizes that Rowdy is smiling in spite of the pain, and, well, that’s just a nice thought, ain’t it. Rowdy pulls off his monstrosity of a turban and pulls on the hat.  Fits like a dream. He fiddles with the stampede strings before turning his head to look at his reflection in a window. “How’s it look?”

“Very nice.  Almost distracts from your face.”

“Yeah, well.”  Rowdy gives the hat a jaunty tilt.  “Mr. Wishbone tells me it’ll heal up in a week or so, and then, whoo boy, you better watch out.”

“Sure, kid.  Let’s get on back to the herd.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Favor.”

On the way back, while mindful of the supplies filling out his saddlebags, Favor first hits a canter and then a gallop.  Rowdy keeps pace, leaning over his horse’s neck, full grin, hat firmly on his head. And then, as they approach the herd, he pulls ahead, farther and farther until Favor is watching him take on towards the mass of moving bodies.  

The mathematician in Favor’s head is telling him he’s going to have Rowdy Yates on board for many, many months to come.  At the very least, it’s a good investment, but even more, it’s a damn good feeling, to know he’s found the right kind of man.


End file.
